


Release

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [22]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Kink, Desperation, Desperation Play, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I'm Going to Hell, Omorashi, Oops Drift found out that Ratchet can get off on being embarrassed, Other, Shower Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sub!Ratchet, Watersports, dom!drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: A day-long scene involving shared kinks comes to a satisfying conclusion.





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> *starts clanging handbell* SHAME. SHAME. SHAME. SHAME.

It was difficult for Ratchet to go about his day as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

As if he wasn’t in a constant state of mild arousal. As if the pressure in his abdomen wasn’t adding to it as it grew. As if he wasn’t looking forward to the end of his shift with a combination of nervousness, lust and shame.

::Hey, Ratch:: Drift’s voice came over comms in a low purr. ::What’s your readout at?::

A day-long scene with Drift in charge, playing with some of their rarer and less-indulged kinks. Ratchet wondered vaguely if he’d lost his mind by agreeing to this. He checked his HUD, anticipation pulsing through him as relayed the number to Drift.

::75%::

::Good. You’ll be really feeling it now, right?:: Anticipation to match Ratchets’ filled Drift’s comm-voice. ::The fullness and pressure, leaning on your array from the inside.::

Alone in his office, Ratchet offlined his optics and leaneds forward to rest his head on the desk as Drift deliberately used _that_ tone of voice. The one that could turn Ratchet on no matter what he said while using it.

He knew. They’d tested it.

::Y-yes.:: Ratchet choked, pressing his thighs together. ::It’s been affecting my array since it passed 70%::

::Is excess charge starting to gather in your spike housing?::

::Yes.::

::Valve warming up?::

:: _Yes_.:: Ratchet shifted on his chair. Determined to get some of his own back, he added. ::I’m lubricating, too.::

Drift groaned over comms, the sound throaty and rough.

:: _Frag_ , Ratchet.:: The speedster cursed. ::Two hours. Don’t be late?::

The only reason Ratchet would be late was if he changed his mind and chose to go with the ‘Plan B’ ending for their day.

::Two hours. Be ready.:: He sent, entire frame pulsing with arousal in time with his spark and the energon flowing past his swelling tanks.

::Too good, oh Primus. Ratchet you’re _too good_.:: Drift moaned before cutting the line.

Ratchet smirked at the surface of his desk before another pang from his tanks coincided with one from his array and set him squirming again.

 

## ~V~

 

By the end of Ratchet’s shift his tank was nearing 90%. He was so acutrely aware of the constant pressure and discomfort in his abdomen that he was shocked nobody seemed to pick up on it.

The pressure it exerted on his array was a near-constant torment and he was hard-put to keep from waddling as he returned to their quarters. His spike ached within its housing, partially pressurised from the extra charge created by his state. Swollen valve lips rubbed against his panel as he moved, gliding easily in the gathered lubrication. He hadn’t been lubricating _much_ , but the slow steady seepage of the last few hours had built to the point where it was gathering faster than his frame could reabsorb it. There wasn’t enough to seep through the seal of his panels and give him away, a small mercy that he didn’t exactly have the spare processing threads to fully appreciate at the moment.

Excitement grew as Ratchet approached their quarters, joining the anticipation throbbing in his array as he let himself into their quarters and closed the door behind him.

Strong arms slid around his waist, a lithe frame pressing hard and warm against his back. Ratchet froze, spinal struts going ramrod-straight as Drift rose to stand on tiptoes, lipplates ghosting delicately over Ratchet’s audial.

“Right on time, lover-mine.” He rumbled, just a touch posessively. “How are you feeling?”

One hand traced teasingly down Ratchet’s abdominal plating, brushing armour that concealed an achingly full tank to press gently against the overly-warm covers of Ratchet’s array.

“Full.” Ratchet’s vents hitched as Drift tapped cunningly over his spike housing. “Only at 90% but I feel like I’m gonna burst.”

“ _That’s_ because you’ve still got your spike retracted.” Drift teased in a low sing-song, fingers of one hand still tapping away over Ratchet’s array while the other arm stayed firmly wrapped around his waist. “Let it out for me, you’ll feel a little better when you do.”

A startled whine burst from Ratchet’s vocaliser as his engine revved uncontrollably. When he got it under control he did as asked, grumbling at Drift’s delighted laughter.

“You worded it that way on _purpose_.” Ratchet growled as Drift revved his engine against his backplating.

“Yup.” Drift let go, grinning widely as he sashayed back out of reach while Ratchet turned to face him. “Think you can make it to the washracks without bursting now?”

A momentary assessment of his frame told Ratchet that yes, indeed he could.

When he nodded, Drift was noble enough to refrain from saying ‘I told you so’, but his knowing grin spoke volumes. Another surge of embarrassment hit Ratchet, stoking the heat within his belly as he contemplated what they were about to do.

Wordlessly, Drift extended a hand palm-up, wiggling his fingers at Ratchet in a silent command. The instant Ratchet’s fingers grazed Drift’s palm the speedster caught him by the wrist and pulled the unprotesting medic towards the washrack.

 

## ~V~

 

Drift felt like his spark was about to go nova as he led Ratchet into their washrack.

He had _seen_ Ratchet when he’d come in. That instant of relaxation when he’d locked the door, that fleeting moment when all his masks dropped. The medic had been _desperate_ , all but frantic with the need to relieve himself. Clearly in that last anxious stretch before he reached full capacity and his frame took over, ignoring the increasingly insistent warnings and physical discomfort through will, all because Drift and what they shared.

_For me… for us._

It was an image Drift knew he’d never forget.

Lust burned hot through Drift’s frame, scorching his mouth dry as every inch of him tingled with anticipation. While Ratchet had been finishing up his shift Drift had spent the last two hours waxing and polishing his frame especially for this, paying special attention to pauldrons, chestplates, waist, thighs -all the places he knew Ratchet liked to grab when riding his spike as well as a few places he had waxed for slightly more selfish reasons.

When he had Ratchet in middle of the spacious washracks Drift reached up and pulled the mech into a kiss, deepening it as Ratchet slowly relaxed against him. Purring, Drift let his hands wander, exploring flared plating and enjoying the sounds Ratchet made as he caressed exposed protoflesh and pressed into hidden seams. He wrapped a hand loosely around Ratchet’s erect spike, sliding up and down in a gentle tease. The shaft was slick with lubricant; every sensory node engorged, swollen with frustrated charge.

Ratchet gasped as he broke the kiss, shuddering against Drift. He sucked in great draughts of air as his plating rattled, biolights flaring magnesium-bright, looking down at Drift with slightly unfocused optics. He was shifting his weight from pede to pede, abdominal armour flexing as he tried to relieve the pressure inside.

“Please, no teasing.” Ratchet begged hoarsely. “Won’t be able to hold out.” His faceplates and chevron _blazed_ in infrared as he flushed with shame at the admission.

A sound of raw lust rolled from Drift, one born of both vocaliser and engine.

“Can’t have that now, can we?” He asked rhetorically, pitching his voice the way that always got Ratchet’s engine revving.

Taking a step back, Drift knelt gracefully and spread he knees a little for balance.

Watching Ratchet’s anxious shifting he ran his fingers up his polished thigh armour, noting the way charge-brightened optics followed the path of his fingertips and feeling a little jolt of gratification as Ratchet licked his lips when Drift finally allowed his spike to emerge. Then Drift leaned back, resting his weight on his hands as he watched the entranced and distracted medic devour him with his optics.

“What are you waiting for?” Drift raised an optical ridge, smirking when Ratchet actually had to shake his helm to regain his focus. “Take a seat.” He said expansively, just barely resisting the urge to wriggle his hips so his spike would wave.

Ratchet’s mouth opened and closed, the pop-click of a resetting vocaliser was followed by nothing except the revving of his engine.

Eventually Ratchet waddled over, the slow gait of a mech running the risk of spontaneously voiding his tank and unsure of what would set it off. Lubricant coated the inside of the medic’s thighs, dribbling steadily towards his knees. Several paces from Drift he lowered himself to his knees, crossing the final stretch in an awkward, wide-kneed shuffle that sent a fresh wave of embarrassed heat across the medic’s faceplates and chevron as Drift groaned with unashamed lust.

“Primus, you’re so fraggin’ hot like that.” Drift growled as Ratchet hovered over him. “So close to bursting, desperate to release and holding on just for me.” He filled his voice with all the awe, lust and pride he felt that his lover would indulge them both like this. “Holding it in so you can let go with me inside you.”

Even as Ratchet’s chevron burned brighter over a shy little smile the ambulance’s powerful endurance engine _roared_. A few drops of lubricant fell from his arousal-swollen valve, hitting Drift’s thighs and beading up on the fresh wax.

The thought of what was to come sent tingling heat down Drift’s spinal cabling.

“Only for you, now.” Ratchet’s voice was low and husky, almost shy as he lowered himself onto Drift with his optics demurely half-shuttered. “Only for you.”

Any response Drift would have made was fragmented by the feeling of soft, slick heat brushing the head of his spike. His vents stalled as Ratchet spent an endless moment adjusting his position before dropping, taking Drift to the hilt in a rush.

It felt impossibly good, the rush of sensation overwhelming Drift in an instant. He was dimly aware of Ratchet throwing his helm back and keening as he ground himself down on Drift’s spike. All Drift could really process was the impossible heat, the medic’s full tank creating an intoxicatingly lopsided pressure. Somehow he kept his hands on the floor as Ratchet grabbed for his shoulders, panting harshly as he began to ride.

Low moans and half-formed words of praise spilled from Drift’s vocaliser as Ratchet’s valve slid over him like oiled silk. Gone was the usual smooth roll and squeeze of Ratchet’s valve mechanisms; instead they clenched at random as arousal warred with the need to relieve himself. The unpredictability drove the pleasure higher, neither of them able to fall into a pattern they could become accustomed to.

Every time Ratchet ground his array down against Drift he gave a beautiful sobbing cry of pleasure Drift had never heard the likes of before. That sound alone had him teetering on the edge, and as much as he wanted to draw this out he knew Ratchet had to be approaching his limit. The medic’s faceplates were scrunched with concentration as he fought the demands of his frame, sheer stubbornness probably the only thing keeping him going.

That thought set Drift on the path of no return.

“I’m gonna...” Drift warned, reaching up to pull Ratchet hard against him. “Gonna _cum_.”

Red hands gripped Drift’s helm. The kiss that followed was messy, wild, full of arousal and desperate need.

“Do it.” Ratchet snarled. “ _Fill me_.”

The command was all he needed. Drift’s hips bucked uselessly against the mass of the mech sitting astride him as he overloaded with a shout, spike throbbing deep within the molten heat of Ratchet’s frame.

Somehow he came back down from the peak just in time to see an almost explosive overload rip its way through Ratchet. The medic hunched over him, convulsive tremors wracking his frame as his valve rippled wildly. His low groan of pleasure rose into a cry of blissful relief as the lopsided pressure on Drift’s spike -still deep within Ratchet- abruptly began to decrease.

Hot liquid under pressure flowed from Ratchet’s tank outlet, splashing back where it hit Drift’s abdomen to scatter warm grey droplets over their white plating. Drift let his helm roll back, uncaring of the expression on his face as Ratchet continued to void. The acrid grey stuff flowed over his armour, beading up on the fresh polish of his thighs and trickling away through gaps between the plating. It felt like the path of every drop was carved into his memory and Drift swore to himself that next time they’d do this somewhere he would be able to see everything properly.

That thought was locked in as he spared a glance down at his frame. Further up his abdominal armour, just below his chestplate, shone the evidence of Ratchet’s overload in an almost artful splash of silver. It was more viscous than the waste liquid, slower to follow the call of gravity even as Ratchet overloaded again, choking on Drift’s designation.

Sitting up properly, Drift wrapped his arms around the trembling, pleasure-wracked medic. Another overload rolled over his own frame, long and slow as Ratchet’s flow slowed to a trickle that slithered down his pelvic curve, cutting hot trails through the slippery lubricant coating him.

When the stream ended and Ratchet’s valve gave the last twitches of relief following his overload Drift took his lover’s face in both hands, kissing cheeks and forehelm and the temptingly dopey smile turning up the corners of Ratchet’s mouth. Drift was riding high on the aftermath, not caring about the mess around and beneath them, all his attention focused on the mech in his lap as Ratchet flushed and buried his face in his neck cables.

“You trying to hide that smile of yours?” Drift asked, stroking Ratchet’s backplates as the medic’s engine began to purr softly.

Ratchet nodded, sliding his arms around Drift. It wasn’t often that one of their sessions robbed the medic of words; but then again they didn’t often play day-long games very often, either.

“Too late, I saw it.”

Huffing through his vents, Ratchet poked Drift in a ticklish spot.

“Stop that unless you wanna get up right now.” Drift warned, only half serious.

To his surprise, Ratchet subsided and actually returned his hands to Drift’s backplates. Mildly astonished, Drift cycled his optics a few times then sighed happily. They’d have to get up very soon, but right now he was happy to stay where he was, cuddling the extremely rare, blissed-out Ratchet currently in his lap.

 


End file.
